Don Pendleton - Missile Intercept

Everything McGreagor did was based more on image and speculation than on results. And Hudson, as the chief of security, was expected to be part of the program, just like the two new rocket scientists his boss had recruited, Turner and Nabokovski. One American, one Russian, and both experts in the field of old ICBMs from another era, Turner from NASA and Nabokovski from the Soviet space program. If anyone could lick the puzzle of how to achieve a successful atmospheric reentry, it was those two. But Hudson knew the New International Independent Space Agency would never see the first civilian commercial space travel, much less build that station on the moon. Especially after Hudson made good on his delivery to the North Koreans: the proposed telemetry for NIISA’s reentry system and two slightly worn nuclear physicists.

American Embassy

Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

BOLAN AND GRIMALDI sat in the darkened room as the full-screen Skype image of Hal Brognola came into view. Seeing Brognola’s scowling face as he set his ceramic mug on the desk before him let them know all was not well at Stony Man Farm.

“What’s up?” Bolan asked. “Is your scowl a reflection on the results of the raid?”

“I just got off the phone with the White House.”

“How’d that go?” Bolan asked.

Brognola sighed. “About as good as could be expected, considering the circumstances.”

Bolan compressed his lips. More than just a few things about the ill-fated raid bothered him, but something indefinable danced through the inner recesses of his memory... Something out of place, but so far, he hadn’t been able to put his finger on it.

“What about it, Striker? Is there any way to put lipstick on this pig?” the big Fed asked.

Instead of the mother lode they’d hoped for, they had recovered a small, rather disappointing amount of unprocessed coca plants and other drugs from the warehouse, and lost three Mexican marines, all good men, in the process.

“The drug seizure wasn’t that impressive,” Bolan said. “Which probably means that the full shipment was still being picked up and hadn’t been deposited in the warehouse yet.”

“It was bad intel from the get-go,” Grimaldi said.

“What about the plane?” Brognola asked.

“It was destroyed,” Bolan said. “Apparently, the guy who engaged me in the firefight dropped the grenade he was about to throw. It detonated and then set off the fuel tanks. The plane was a complete loss. They’re going through the shell now. Preliminary reports showed five bodies inside. Six, if you include the grenadier.”

“We recovered a briefcase loaded with American currency and euros,” Grimaldi said. “Somebody was about to make a purchase.”

“Which brings up the matter of our special prisoner,” Brognola said. “The Cuban national. You got any idea what his angle is?”

“He’s playing it close to his vest,” Bolan said. “We’ll know more once we can interrogate him.”

“The Bureau’s sending a pair of special agents down there to do just that.” Hal sat back in his chair and held his coffee mug in both hands. “I know that look, Striker. Is something else bothering you?”

“Somebody tipped them,” he answered.

“You think they were tipped off in advance?”

“Not in advance,” Bolan said. “Otherwise they would have set up an ambush. This was more like a last-minute notification. If they’d known we were coming, that plane wouldn’t have landed, either.” The events of the raid were running through his mind like a movie at double speed. The approach, the interdiction, the firefight... Then it hit him. Someone inside the warehouse had yelled that the marines had arrived, not the police. How did the person know it was the marines?

“I need to have a talk with Sergeant Martinez,” Bolan said. “I think he’s got a traitor in his group. Someone on the raid team tipped them as we were making the final approach.”

Brognola raised his eyebrows. “That’s not going to go over well with the administration, either here or in Mexico City. Do you have any hard proof?”

“Just a feeling,” Bolan said.

“But when he gets a feeling,” Grimaldi broke in, “you can pretty much take it to the bank.”

“I don’t know,” Brognola said, shaking his head. “One of the reasons the marines were sent in was to prevent leaks to informants.”

“This had to have been a last-minute tip-off. We were in close proximity up until the execution. Somebody must have had a cell phone and made a quick call, maybe contacting someone to call the compound and warn them.”

Brognola heaved a sigh. “Okay, I’ll pursue it from this end, too. See if Bear can pull some cell phone transmission records. So are you sure you can trust that Martinez guy?”

Bolan considered that, then nodded. “As sure as I can be. He was right there alongside us when it all went down. And he was pretty upset about losing his men. You can’t fake that kind of emotion.”

Brognola nodded. “Keep me posted.” His eyes narrowed. “Is there something else?”

“Another inconsistency. One of the hostiles down there, the guy from the plane who tried to take us out... I got a glimpse of his face before the grenade detonated. He looked Asian. Just thought I’d pass that along.”

“Thanks. As I said, the FBI’s sending a team to Mexico to interview the Cuban. I thought maybe you two could stick around and give them a hand.”

“Give them a hand?” Grimaldi repeated with an exaggerated groan. “What does that mean?”

“See if the guy’s legit, for one thing,” Brognola said. “We know the Cubans have been working hand in hand with the cartels for years, smuggling drugs. With these new normalized relations with Havana, we’re going to need all the intel we can gather to keep on top of things.”

“We’ll need a better cover,” Bolan stated. “We were down here as ‘civilian contractors’ assisting the marines, remember?”

“I’ll have your usual DOJ credentials flown down to the embassy tonight.”

2

Tocumen International Airport

Panama City, Panama

Colonel Yi flipped shut the fake Chinese passport and placed it into his pocket as he waited for his luggage to clear customs. The rest of the Black Tiger team was going through customs, as well. Yi directed one of his men to take charge of the bags and strolled leisurely outside to stand in the nighttime air. He scanned his surroundings, looking for any possible foreign agents or police who might be suspicious of an arriving group of Asians. Their passports listed them as Chinese, a Hong Kong acrobatic team, which explained their elaborate equipment. And to the untrained eyes of the Panamanians, the distinctions between Koreans and Chinese would be indistinguishable.

Seeing no telltale prying eyes, Yi removed a cigarette pack from his pocket. He shook one out, placed it between his lips and lit it as he moved to a position of modest seclusion under a high concrete arch. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Yi casually took out his satellite phone and called Song.

“We have arrived in Panama,” Yi said in Chinese, to maintain his team’s cover.

“Did you encounter any problems?” General Song asked, also in Chinese.

“None so far. We are clearing customs and waiting for our local contact to pick us up. We will then obtain the rest of our equipment. Are the ships in position?”

“Their arrival is imminent.” Song cleared his throat, which Yi knew was a bad sign. “However, there has been an unforeseen complication. The meeting in Mexico did not go well. Apparently, the Americans and some of their Mexican puppets interceded.”